


The Final Parsec Problem

by Vivian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt, M/M, Phone Sex, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Terrorism, Unrequited Love, suicidal Jim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-23 18:59:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: “We should’ve died,” Jim says, finally. He sucks in his lips and releases them with a soft smack. The sound echos in the silence.AU in which Jim Moriarty is alive and John Watson is not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by my [love](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas) who is the kindest and whose commentary keeps me going and who is ever wise and poetic. Much thanks goes also to my man [ Jam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked) who encourages and inspires with his writing and our talks.

i.

 

Jim cracks open a can of cream soda. A sharp hiss as the pressure releases. Foam rises, oozing over Jim’s fingers. He licks it off and takes a sip. It’s so cold his teeth ache. The liquid slithers down his throat, contrasting the heat of the Afghan sun. The bright azure sky sharpens all shadows. Life is pointless. Life is surreal. Jim takes another sip. He adjusts his Ray Ban sunglasses.

Behind him, Sebastian stands motionless in the terrace door. Jim already knows what Sebastian’s going to say, and so does Sebastian.

“He’s back.”

Jim doesn’t reply. He takes another sip of cream soda, pulls out his phone, unlocks the screen, starts typing. Sebastian places a USB stick on the table next to Jim.

 

They leave Kabul in the evening. Jim schedules the layover in Dubai to be long enough to disappear from Sebastian’s sight for two hours. The USB stick weighs heavily in his pocket.

When Jim comes back, Sebastian’s stance is tense, and his step guarded. Jim doesn’t speak during the flight. 18 hours later they arrive in London.

 

 

ii.

 

Three years since the rooftop. The memory blurs with every day.

Sleep does not come easy, if it comes at all. Jim arranges meetings for new clients, passes on information, does extended research on Peshawar travel roots, the newest developments concerning binary black holes, and at last, when dawn wounds the horizon, Jim closes all tabs and plugs in the USB stick.

The footage that flickers over the screen dates three days back. 221b Baker Street. Table in the kitchen overturned, only one armchair in the living room with its back to the wall, facing the fireplace. Papers scattered everywhere, abandoned four months ago. When Dr Watson had died. Along with his newly wedded wife.  

Jim fast forwards the file to the next day. At noon the doors open.

Jim feels his pulse pick up. Sherlock enters.

Sherlock lets the suitcase fall, and before hanging up his coat starts discarding the papers. He turns up the table, takes a stack of letters and stabs them onto the mantelpiece. Once he is finished, he stands in front of the fireplace, back to the camera. It is barely a shiver on the screen, but Sherlock’s hands tremble. Then they clench into fists. A second later Sherlock turns sharply and stalks away. When he returns it is with the second armchair. He sits down in it instead of his own.

And for a while, Sherlock doesn’t move. Just stares, hands tense on the armrests.

Jim watches until Sherlock’s eyes fall closed.

 

Jim wakes with terror. Consciousness rips him from blackness and throws him into being. He’s cold and naked, sweat clammy on his skin. The laptop is next to him on the bed, his clothes somewhere on the floor. Jim doesn’t remember taking them off, doesn’t remember going to bed either. When he opens the laptop, the security footage has progressed until midnight. On the screen, Sherlock stands in front of the window, violin delicately placed on his shoulder. His chin is pinched down, bow touching the strings. The memory of melody twines in Jim’s head. F minor. Foreboding, slithering scales of notes. Jim clicks play. The file is soundless. It doesn’t matter. It’s Prokofiev's violin sonata no. 1.  Jim can tell. He’s played the piano parts. The melody builds in his head, rises. Jim’s chest aches. It’s hard to breathe. He sinks down again. He watches Sherlock’s long fingers on the strings until he cannot bear it, and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. The melody does not fade.

Outside the skies darken.

 

When night falls, Jim gets up. He texts Sebastian to arrange snipers and to pick him up in half an hour. He showers and dresses. Dark blue Reiss suit, bloodred Westwood tie. He slicks his hair back, stares into the mirror, and waits for Sebastian to ring.

The drive is quiet. Sebastian opens the door for him when they arrive and then gets back in. He leaves the motor on.

Jim rings the bell. A moment passes. The door opens.

Mycroft Holmes stares at him, face blank but composed. Certainly has seen Jim in the security cameras.

“Long time no see,” Jim says and moves past Mycroft.

There’s a beat, then Mycroft says, “Security will be here any minute, as you should be aware.”

Jim scrunches up his face. “Don’t be dull.”

A sniper sight appears on Mycroft’s forehead. Jim gestures to the mirror to their right. Mycroft doesn’t look. Boring.

“Just thought I’d say hi.”

Mycroft assesses him coldly. He doesn’t say anything so obvious as ‘I thought you had died’. Thank the lord. Jim takes a good look around, the wood panelled walls, the Italian 19th century chandelier, the slick modern telephone by his side, the stairs leading up to the master bedroom and library. It all reeks of kept conventions, of flawless, tasteful _philistinism_.

“What do you want?” Mycroft asks.

Jim turns back to him. “No ‘welcome back’?” he says, turning his mouth down. “My, have you become _rude_ , Mr Holmes.” He places his hand on his chest in a gesture of disbelief.

Mycroft folds his fingers at his back, relaxing, but his gaze stays sharp. Mycroft plays well, much better than his brother, but the little twitch in his shoulders tells Jim he’s growing more unnerved by the minute. Jim estimates a little more over six minutes before the streets will be clogged with secret service cars.

“Your security is so-so. Bit disappointed.” Jim shakes his head and continues to the kitchen. Mycroft follows him like a bird who flaps in the air close by as a snake slithers up to steal its eggs, uncertain if to watch or attack. Jim opens Mycroft’s fridge.

“What do we have here,” he murmurs and takes out a piece of cheesecake on a plate. It’s topped with a strawberry. Jim slides back the cellophane covering the plate and culls the strawberry between his fingers. Slowly he slides it into his mouth, eyes on Mycroft. The plate he puts back. Closes the fridge, sucks his fingers clean.

“Mhm. Really good!” Then drops his voice and says, “Now. Send your brother my love.”

And with that, Jim leaves.

 

 

iii.

 

Two days have passed since they returned to London. Sebastian has taken his place on the opposite side of 221b Baker Street. He is glaring through the scope of his rifle into the flat. Holmes hasn’t left since Sebastian arrived which means Jim’ll have to wait until he can bug the sodden place. Sebastian hasn’t asked why the video files are not enough, hasn’t asked anything concerning Holmes. The man whom they should’ve eliminated long ago and who to Sebastian’s terror and Jim’s delight singlehandedly dismantled most of Jim’s European network in the span of two years. Jim had, in a blank voice, called it a clean slate. Jim hadn’t even watched, had just abandoned his clients at Sherlock’s feet and had let Sherlock tear them apart. Had told Sebastian, with a glimpse of envy in his dark eyes, to shut up whenever Sebastian attempted to update Jim on the destruction. He’d let Sebastian monitor it, the whole two years, anyway. But not once had Jim spoken _his_ name.

Something acrid stirs inside Sebastian at the thought. Then the precious doctor had died along with his wife in a car crash, leaving their child behind. A child that Holmes couldn’t touch four months ago, and that now, he holds in his arms, rocking it to sleep. Sebastian’s mouth twists. Through his scope he can see Holmes’ face, the turned-down lips, the pale eyes, grief twined into every sinew. And something else, too. A bite he’d lacked with the doctor. Tenderness has been cut from him, leaving him with sharper edges.

Sebastian knows Holmes has spent most of the past four months in the States. He’d assisted the BAU or roamed the cities for distractions, which mostly consisted of cocaine and murder. He’d stopped with the cocaine after two months, almost dying.

Now, Sherlock places the child back in its crib and then faces the door. Mycroft Holmes enters. The older Holmes brother looks paler than usual. Sebastian cannot hear what they are saying, but he’s fairly sure The Ice Man is telling Sherlock about Jim’s visit. Took him long enough. Sherlock doesn’t react. Just stands there, face averted from view. Sebastian takes out his phone and texts Jim.

 _your message was received._ Jim texts back in a matter of seconds. _Good._

In 221b, Mycroft is about to leave, but lingers at the door. Sebastian focuses on his face. Mycroft’s frowning, mouth uncertain, he looks like he’s about to say something, but then doesn’t. Mycroft leaves. Sherlock turns around, walks over the small coffee table in front of the couch and fishes his phone from underneath a cushion.

 

 

iv.

 

Text alert.

Jim breathes in. Counts to ten. Then he picks up his phone, looks at the lock screen.

_The Virigin:_

_I thought you were dead. -SH_

Jim grimaces. He unlocks his phone. Types,

_Miss me? -JM_

Three jumping blue dots indicate that Sherlock’s typing. Then they stop. Jim bites his lip, feels his heart pounding. He texts Sebastian, _what is he doing?_ Sebastian replies, _pacing and texting you, I imagine._ Jim huffs a breath, grinds his teeth. He replies, _Don’t vex me, Sebastian._

Then two messages arrive at the same time.

_Sebastian Moran:_

_I’m sorry, boss._

_The Virgin:_

_Meet me. -SH_

Jim replies to Sebastian almost without thought. _Keep me updated._

Then he opens Sherlock’s message. Just stares at it, doesn’t answer. Blood rushes through his veins. He puts the phone down, gets up, smoothes his hair back.

 

Jim doesn’t answer for the next week.

He watches Sherlock on the cameras for hours while he arranges meetings for clients on his phone, checks the IMRN for new publications, and brushes up his Dari. Every now and then Jim gets up and plays Prokofiev or Chopin’s _Nocturnes_ on the piano. He plays until it’s all there is. The ache.  

Until he can’t bear it. One morning, he stands barefoot before the piano, stares at its keys of bone. He smashes a vase into it. He tears open its corpus, rips at its strings until his hands bleed.

Afterwards, he sits with his back against the wall, knees drawn up. Light casts over his face. He feels nothing. Nothing but what he’s always felt.

 

In the evening, Sebastian finds him.

Jim hasn’t moved. Wordless, Sebastian gets the medical kit from the bathroom and dresses the cuts on Jim’s hands. Jim hates him for it.

 

 

v.

 

Sherlock leaves Baker Street Friday morning.

Jim tells Sebastian to send the surveillance team to bug the flat. Of course Sherlock will know, but that doesn’t matter. Hasn’t mattered before.

When the team has left, Jim enters.

After all the years, the smell is still the same. Acrid from whatever Sherlock’s cooking up in the kitchen, and in the living room something warm and earthly. Dust dancing in sunlight. Particles of discarded skin, Sherlock’s skin. Jim feels light.

A soft whine. Jim turns to his left.

The child in its crib. Jim throws it a glance, but no more, before he continues into Sherlock’s bedroom. He wonders what Sherlock will do with the one upstairs.

The sheets smell faintly of lavender. Hints of musk.

For a moment, Jim sits on the bed. He can’t bring himself to lie down as he’d done so many years ago. The room is doused in orange twilight, all sounds cut off, reality suspended. Jim hides his face in his left hand. Then he drags his fingers over his eyes and cheeks, leaving his skin warm with the inflow of blood.

Sebastian texts him that Sherlock is walking down the street, coming back.

Jim gets up, goes back to the child. He bends over the crib. The child stares at him. Big blue eyes that comprehend nothing. Jim reaches for a discarded rattle. Jingles it. The child grabs for it, eyes lighting up. Jim holds it out of reach and jingles it again.

Behind him, the door opens.

Jim closes his eyes.

Outside, a cloud shrouds the sun. The light dims.

Sherlock’s intake of breath brings Jim back. He opens his eyes and says, “Never understood what people liked about _these_.” He points at the baby with the rattle. Then he turns to face Sherlock. Once more he moves the rattle. “What? D’you think me someone who'd hurt a child?”

He drops the rattle and smiles. Because that's exactly what Sherlock thinks he is. Because that's exactly what Jim is.

He looks at Sherlock, eyebrows raised.  

Sherlock steps closer.

Suddenly the game is over. Suddenly, it’s real.

The sun’s unveiled. Light floods the room. Sherlock’s pale face incandescent.

Jim doesn’t move. Sherlock approaches.

He’s not sure what he can see in Sherlock’s eyes. But he can see Sherlock’s pulse stutter on the vein on his neck. Then he’s before Jim. Light caught in his lashes.

Jim feels silence like a weight, like the years, like all the space that’s been added between them.

Sherlock reaches out, but stops himself before he touches Jim. His hand falls to his side. Jim follows the motion. Remembers the rooftop. Remembers the handshake. The touch.

He looks up at Sherlock. He feels so heavy.

“How can you be alive?” Sherlock asks. For a moment his gaze flickers to Jim’s bandaged hands.

Jim bites his lip, grimaces and looks away.

“Doesn’t matter.” He steps to the side. Sherlock moves between Jim and the crib.

“Then why. Why did you come back?”

Jim stares out of the window, hand on his mouth, dragging downward.

“Our problem, Sherlock. I wanted to solve our problem.”

He hears Sherlock step closer.

“Wanted.”

Of course, he’s sharp. He’d notice.

“Changed my mind,” Jim says. “Can’t go on. No. No more, no.”  He turns back to Sherlock but does not look at him. He speaks flatly. “Enough is enough. It’s over. We’re over.”

He can feel Sherlock’s stare. Can’t think. He doesn’t want to be here. Here at all.

“We should’ve died,” Jim says, finally. He sucks in his lips and releases them with a soft smack. The sound echos in the silence.

Jim goes to the door, but glances over his shoulder before he leaves.

Sherlock stares at him wide-eyed, fists at his side, knuckles white.

 

Sebastian waits in the car.

Jim tells him to get out. He drives back to his flat alone.

 

Jim turns up the tab of the bathtub.

He swallows five aspirin and waits until the tub is filled to the brim. He’s taken off the bandages, his shoes and socks but nothing else. _No More Tears_ blasts from the speakers. Jim steps into the tub, water welling over the rim, sloshing onto the floor. He exhales slowly. He cards both hands through his hair and sinks deeper until he rests his head against the edge. More water spills to the floor.

He feels his veins opening in the warmth. He looks at the scalpel he nicked from Sherlock that day in the lab. He grazes his fingers over the faint lines creeping up his arms.

It’ll be easy. He closes his eyes. He takes the scalpel. Then he flings it away. It clatters to the floor. He feels for the razor blade instead, holds it between thumb and index finger.

He traces it against his wrist.

It’s not right. Not here, now, like this. Alone.

He opens his eyes. The song reaches its climax. He feels so hollow. He can’t breathe.

He can’t bear it. He’s missed the right moment three years ago.

Suddenly, the bathroom door opens.

Sebastian stares at him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sebastian asks, pale as a corpse, gaze flickering to the scalpel and then the blade in Jim’s hands.

Jim heaves himself half out of the water.

“Get out,” Jim says.

“Jim.”

“ _Get out!_ ” Jim shouts.

Sebastian hesitates for a split second. Then he marches towards Jim and wrenches the blade from his hand. It cuts them both. Blood drips to the floor. Sebastian manhandles him out of the tub.

“Don’t touch me,” Jim gasps. Sebastian pulls him close. Jim shivers with revulsion, towards himself or Sebastian he’s not sure. Sebastian pulls a towel from the rack and drapes it around Jim’s shoulders.

Jim rips it off, takes two steps back on the wet floor.

“I don’t need this. I don’t need you. Get out of my sight.”

He watches Sebastian swallow. Sebastian’s mouth twists.

“I’m not going,” Sebastian says. It’s bold, even for him.

Laughter bubbles up in Jim’s chest. It breaks from his mouth in an ugly sound. He turns around and knocks his head against the tiled wall. His skin splits on his forehead. Pain bolts through him. It doesn’t ground him, doesn’t do anything but _hurt_. Yet. Still better than the emptiness.

Sebastian is close once more, but does not dare to touch.

“You’re hilarious,” Jim slurs, blood running down his forehead, “with your—” he waves his hand, “affection for me.” He looks at Sebastian and reaches out, traces his fingers over Sebastian’s jaw. “Really,” he says. “You’re so sweet.” He puts as much disgust into his voice as he can muster, and watches Sebastian wince. It’s barely perceptible, but he sees it. “Wasting yourself like that. My, what would your father say.” This time, Sebastian flinches properly. Jim smiles. “And now you’re just standing here, taking it…” He trails off while his hand glides over Sebastian’s throat, down his chest. He slips his fingers into Sebastian’s trousers, grips him hard. “Taking it like the little fucktoy you are to me. Well then, go on.” He pulls his hand back. The cuts have opened again. Blood smears over his palm, trickles down his fingers. Jim pulls off his clothes. “Let’s do this,” he says and pushes at Sebastian. Sebastian doesn’t look at him, but he obeys. He gets down on the floor, propped up on his elbows. Jim straddles his thighs, opening Sebastian’s belt and trousers with one hand.

 

It’s an ugly thing between them. This.

It leaves Jim dented. It leaves him filthy with Sebastian’s love.

Afterwards, he tells Sebastian to leave. And maybe this time, Sebastian won’t come back.

Jim can’t get himself to care.

 

 

vi.

 

Shortly after midnight, there’s a knock on Jim’s door.

Jim waits until the second knock, more impatient now, before he even moves. Can’t be Sebastian. Won’t be. He gets up from where he’s sat on the couch, disregards the security camera feed, saunters to the door and spies through the peephole.

It’s Sherlock.

Jim opens the door.

Sherlock’s cold gaze rakes over Jim’s naked chest, his yet unbandaged hands, the cut on his forehead and the old scars on the inside of his arms. It doesn’t last more than a heartbeat.

“Well,” Jim says, voice dull, “won’t you come in.”

Sherlock moves forward, Jim steps aside.

“You entered the premises of Baker Street on six different occasions. I thought I’d return the favour.”

“Don’t be rude. I waited until you were off on one of your adventures.”

Jim watches Sherlock take in the living room, the wrecked piano, the traces of bloody footprints, not yet dried.

“Your blood, I assume,” Sherlock says. His voice is deep, coarsened velvet.

Jim doesn’t answer.

“Looks like I’m late to the party,” Sherlock continues.

“Don’t play coy,” Jim says and walks over to a glass cabinet. He retrieves two tumblers, a whiskey bottle and an ashtray. Sherlock glances at it.

“Oh I know you started again,” Jim says.

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. He takes out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lights one, hungrily. Its scent fills the room. Dirty. Jim pours them three fingers of whiskey each. Sherlock steps close. Smoke wafts from his lips. In the dim light he looks barely human, sharper and softer at once.

“You tried to kill yourself,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Wasn’t the last time,” Jim says.

“Mhm,” Sherlock makes and smiles, eyes narrowed.

“What do you want?” Jim asks.

Sherlock steps closer, his breath on Jim’s cheek.

“To play the game,” Sherlock says. He wraps his fingers around Jim’s wrist, pulls his arm forward to look at the scars, really _look_. His thumb on Jim’s wrist where the scar begins.

“The game’s over, Sherlock,” Jim says.

“If it were, you’d be dead.”

Sherlock’s fingers glide over Jim’s skin. Jim huffs a breath, looks up at Sherlock.

“You’re trying to manipulate me,” Jim says, a little impressed.

Sherlock takes a drag of his cigarette. He blows the smoke to the side and then leans in.

“Is it working?” Sherlock’s voice lets a shiver run down Jim’s spine.

“No,” Jim says.

Sherlock lets go of Jim’s arm. “Put on a shirt.”

Jim steps back, takes his tumbler with him.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“Skin does not irritate me,” Sherlock says, irritated.

Jim smirks. “I meant the scars.”

For the first time this evening, something flickers in Sherlock’s eyes. Something Jim had seen on the rooftop, too. Recognition.

“Remind you of your own,” Jim says, pursing his lips and raising his brows. “All those nasty needle marks.”

Sherlock replies nothing.

“You want to play the game, Sherlock? D’you really want to?”

But he can read the answer in Sherlock’s eyes already.

 

 

vii.

To have Sherlock in his flat should feel more like an intrusion than it does.

It doesn’t feel wrong at all. Doesn’t feel right. Sherlock’s just there, like a knife. Sharp, slicing open all there is to see.

And maybe it’s Jim’s lack of discomfort that snuffs out Sherlock’s greed, that chokes him of speech.

In the end it’s just the two of them, standing in filled space. Meaningless as it’s never been before.

Jim sinks down on the couch. He feels so tired. He doesn’t look up when he says,

“Please go now.”

 

A moment later, steps. Then the door falls shut.


	2. Chapter 2

viii.

 

Jim packs by morning.

He sends in the cleaners at noon while he’s in a cab to Mayfair. They’ll work the flat until all traces of him have gone. The name and money he’s used on the property will lead nowhere.

It’ll be as if he’d never been there. A ghost, at last.

 

The cab stops at Conduit Street. Jim gets out, Prada suitcase in hand. The rest of his possessions will be delivered to his other flat in Knightsbridge. He takes out a key and lets himself in.

The flat reeks of alcohol. He’s expected it.

“Sebastian, can’t you clean up after yourself?” he asks as he enters the antechamber and takes off his coat. He hangs it up, then walks into the living room. Sebastian sits with his back to the wall, empty bourbon bottle next to him. Jim picks it up, traces his fingers over the wax on the bottle neck. “Maker’s Mark. What a waste,” he says.

Sebastian looks up at him, red-rimmed eyes, skin wan.

Jim grimaces. “For god’s sake, stop pitying yourself.”

That sobers Sebastian up a bit. He cards a hand through his hair, and clears his throat.

“I thought—”

“That’s not what I pay you for.” It’s not quite true. Of course he pays Sebastian to think. He slides his sunglasses into his hair. “Now get up and take a shower. I’ll cook.”

Sebastian gets up. He walks into the bathroom while Jim goes into the kitchen.

And yet, this time is not like the others. Sebastian won’t mention it, of course. Any of it. But it’s there, fraying between them.

Jim retrieves an onion, carrots and tomatoes, puts on a kettle and as the water heats, he cuts the vegetables. There’s some of his last Merlot left. He uses it for the sauce and pours himself a glass on the side.

By the time Sebastian comes out of the bathroom, the sauce is almost ready and Jim’s decanting the pasta.

They don’t speak. Jim puts on Sebastian’s _Ace Of Spades_ vinyl. It’s not an apology and they both know it. What’s said is said. It does not become any less true.

  





 

Sebastian watches him.

Lemmy’s voice rasps through the speakers. The screeching of guitars, the pistol-hits of the drums. And within it all, Jim still looks as quiet as the devil in a church painting. The cut on his forehead is stark against his pale skin. His mouth is tinted red by the sauce, his eyes lie shadowed. Just a glint in the black of them.

He looks more tired than he has in three years. They should’ve stayed in Kabul. It’s inconvenient enough for what Jim’s planned, but with Holmes—

“Stop it,” Jim drawls.

Sebastian’s gaze snaps up.

“Don’t do that while I’m sitting right opposite of you,” Jim says, irritation within anger.

“Sorry,” Sebastian says. He doesn’t mean it. Jim knows it, too.

Sebastian swallows a spoonful of penne and washes it down with wine. Might as well be his last meal. But then it always could be, with Jim.

“You frightened me,” he confesses because he can’t lie to Jim, can’t ever.

Jim just looks at him. He offers nothing. For a moment, Sebastian thinks he might get up and leave. But Jim doesn’t. Instead, he refills their glasses.

“How’s Glowworm coming along?” Jim asks.

Sebastian straightens. “Good. The route you gave me proved to be without impediments.”

“‘Course it did.”

“They’re happy so far. All’s set up. Will you—will you walk them through personally?”

Jim scrunches up his face. He speaks around a mouthful of pasta, “Yes. Utter baboons.”

Jim swallows, wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Don’t look like that, tiger, it’s good we’re out of Kabul. Imagine they’d retaliate. You know how they get.”

The endearment quickens Sebastian’s pulse. Jim’s lips curve into a smile. Under the table, Jim’s ankle grazes Sebastian’s calf.

Jim bites his lip. His eyes draw Sebastian in, as they always do. It’s all Sebastian knows of fear, and all he knows of love.

“Let’s go to bed,” Jim says and gets up. He leaves his plate half full. Sebastian follows him.

Jim moves like a sleepwalker, with intent, but he’s not quite there. Jim doesn’t turn on the lights in the bedroom. Sebastian keeps the door open to see him at all. In the dimness, Jim takes off his clothes. Slowly, with care. Until he is bare before Sebastian. Skin smooth with shadow. A spill of light on his throat. Sebastian reaches out. Jim allows the touch. He tilts his head up. It feels like he’s looking through Sebastian. And yet, he sees all. Every quiver of his as his hand glides over Jim’s neck, his chest, his shoulders. With both hands on Jim’s biceps he draws him in, pulling him a step closer.

This is not how they usually do it. This is too soft. Sebastian kisses him, and there’s a trembling inside of him. Jim’s eyes flutter closed, then he kisses Sebastian back. Gently, Sebastian moves them towards the bed, lays them down on it. Light from the hallway casts over Jim’s left side. Sebastian follows its line first with his fingers, then with his lips. Above him, Jim makes a soft noise. Jim’s hands fist into the sheets. He hasn’t bandaged them them again, and Sebastian wonders if some trace of cruor might slide against the cotton. May stay with him. Without thought, he grabs Jim’s hand, turns the palm upwards and kisses the cuts. A sharp intake of breath from Jim. Sebastian moves upwards and between Jim’s thighs. Jim looks at him, eyelids heavy. Sable eyes. Jim doesn’t see him. Under Sebastian’s touch, Jim is untouchable. He’s some other thing, a force caught in flesh, he’s not a person at all.

Sebastian’s lungs cord up, and it’s a familiar feeling.

Jim closes his eyes. “Kiss me,” Jim murmurs.

Almost, Sebastian can’t. Almost, Sebastian breaks what softness has nested between them. He wants to. He wants to _make_ Jim look, wants to crack him open and eat him raw. But Jim is not like that, can’t be broken open, not by Sebastian. So he kisses him like a knife to his own chest.

“Look at me,” Sebastian murmurs as his lips graze Jim’s neck.

But Jim doesn’t, and that is that.

 

Afterwards, Jim sits in the dark and smokes one of Sebastian’s cigarettes. His back is turned. A line of pale light over his cheekbone and the curve of his ear.

  


x.

 

Sebastian is asleep, tossing uneasy in the sheets.

Jim sits on the windowsill, legs drawn up. He looks outside. The night is dark and quiet. The taste of smoke still on his tongue.

His phone lies against his thigh, screenlight cold-blue washing against his hand.

 _You moved. -SH_ reads on the display.

For a moment, Jim closes his eyes. Then he gets up and retrieves his laptop. He logs into the security feed of 221b Baker Street. He plugs in his headphones.

Sherlock’s standing in front of the window. Pale, clad in shadows from the waist down. The child is asleep in its crib. Not a sound.

Jim watches Sherlock breathe. For a while it’s all he does.

Then Jim, leaving the laptop open, walks into the living room. He sits down at the piano Sebastian bought for when Jim stays, and starts playing. Chopin’s _Nocturne_ No. 20.

He repeats the beginning scales, again and again, caught in the melody. It’s both too soft and too sharp.

At some point, shuffling, soft steps. He knows Sebastian stands leaning against the doorframe in the dark. He keeps playing until he forgets Sebastian is there at all.

When Jim gets up again, Sebastian has gone back to bed.

Silence has spread inside Jim. He grazes the touchpad of his laptop and the screen flickers on.

On the security feed, Sherlock places his violin back into its case.

  


xi.

 

The morning is bright and clear.

Temperatures have risen overnight. Sunlight douses the room. Jim looks at Sebastian who lies sprawled out on the bed. His hair gilded, skin hard over muscles. His wiry limbs, the sharp angles of his face, jaw and cheekbones, and the flutter of pale lashes. He’s as beautiful as he is deadly. He never misses a shot. And even without his rifle, he is one of the most lethal men alive. A worthy lieutenant. A feeling worms inside Jim’s stomach. The tight coils of possession.

If only Sebastian weren’t in love with him.

Jim sighs, joins Sebastian on the bed. He bends over him, knuckles grazing Sebastian’s shoulder.

“Wakey, wakey, tiger,” he murmurs.

Sebastian’s eyes open. They gleam in hues of grey and green.

They look at each other. Sebastian reaches up. His warm palm on Jim’s neck. He pulls him down, but Jim doesn’t let Sebastian kiss him.

“No, no. No time for play.” Jim shakes his head and slides back. “Up you get. Be a good boy for daddy.”

Sebastian makes a disgruntled sound. Then he gets out of bed, stretching his naked body. He knows Jim’s watching. Jim clicks his tongue. Sebastian smirks.

“Okay, okay,” Jim says, “get over here.”

Sebastian advances, movements liquid, forceful. He has Jim against the wall the next second. Jim sucks in air through his teeth. He’s already half hard.

“Be damned, Moran,” he says and gives in.

 

Sleep deprivation leaves Jim with a voltaic sense of euphoria. It sizzles through him, strings him high. His skin tingles with the afterglow of orgasm. His sight swims slightly, colours bright.

He texts Sherlock.

_Help me kill the president. -JM_

Sherlock replies two seconds later. _Which president? - SH_

_The American of course._

_I don’t think that’d be wise. - SH_

Jim’s lips stretch into a grimace, he types, _Who cares. Your brother might even thank me._

_I doubt that. -SH_

_All the better then. xxx_

A minute of silence.

_How would you do it? -SH_

Jim chuckles and replies. _Quid pro quo, Clarice._

_My brother will have you killed. -SH_

Jim huffs a breath. _Jealous?_

_Yes. -SH_

Oh. Jim smiles. He locks his phone without answering.

  


xii.

 

The Holmes brothers stand opposite each other.

Sherlock by the crib, Mycroft by the door. Sherlock cradles the child while Mycroft stands leaning on his umbrella. They stare at each other, quietly.

Then Mycroft says, “What are you planning?”

His voice crackles through Sebastian’s headphones. Sebastian’s in the flat on the other side of the street, laptop before him and rifle in hand. He glances through the scope, ignoring the live feed of the security cameras on the laptop. This close, his scope yields more insight.

Now, Sherlock props the child in the curve of his arm, holding a rattle above its head. He jiggles it.

“What do you mean,” Sherlock says, focussed on the child.

Mycroft’s grip on the umbrella tightens. His whole posture shifts. The tension is obvious to Sebastian, so to Sherlock it must be like alarm bells ringing.

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock glances up. His gaze is cold, expression blank.

“I really don’t.”

“Please, Sherlock. I know you’ve been in contact with him.”

Sherlock says nothing. Instead, he sets down the rattle and rocks the child. It starts to whine, then cry. Mycroft’s lips twitch.

“He will try to destroy you.”

Sherlock puts the child into its crib. It continues to cry. Sherlock leans over it, but does nothing.

“Let him,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft advances. His movement is so sudden, he surprises himself. Sebastian can see it on his face. _Impulsive_ , Sebastian thinks, _Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes. Not quite so cold after all._

“You know I can’t,” Mycroft says, quiet, voice bare of the ice that usually coats it. “I won’t allow it.”

Sherlock huffs a harsh breath. “It’s not yours to allow.”

Mycroft’s eyes widen, then narrow. “I will eliminate him. No matter the power vacuum he might leave behind. I _will_ do it.”

Sherlock sneers. “Give it your best shot.”

A moment of pause. Then Mycroft spins on his heel. Two quick steps towards the door. Mycroft stops on the third. He does not look at Sherlock when he says, “I know you are still hurting because of Jo—”

“ _Don’t_ speak his name,” Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft flinches. Then he leaves.

When the door falls shut, Sherlock whips around. He sweeps the mantlepiece clean with a sharp movement of his arm. Letters scatter to the floor, a glass crashes.

Sherlock stands bent, unmoving. The child cries.

 

Sebastian watches.

Something warm and vicious in his chest. He texts Jim, _Holmes brothers met. Ice Man plans to kill you. Virgin’s still sad about the doctor & crying rn. _

Underneath the message it reads _seen_. Jim doesn’t reply.

 

An hour later, Sherlock leaves the flat.

 

Sebastian packs up and follows him to St Bartholomew’s Hospital.

Dark grey clouds cast over the sky. They dim the light. Something tautens the air. The promise of storm.

Sebastian is careful as he follows Holmes, always is. Yet, he can never quite tell if Holmes knows or not.

Holmes’ way leads them into the morgue. Holmes leaves the door open, enough for Sebastian to spy through. His heart skips a beat.

In the cold light, before one of the slabs, his silhouette.

Jim turns around.

He’s wearing his light grey Reiss suit. Cream tie, pin glinting on it, the Aesculapian snake one.

Sebastian’s stomach turns.

Not a hair out of place, colours clean. Jim looks smooth. Pale. And his eyes, black and wet.

Like an oil painting, not quite dried. Apparitional.

“See you can keep up,” Jim says, voice monotone. For a second Sebastian thinks, Jim is speaking to him. But of course he isn’t.

Holmes links his fingers behind his back. He straightens.

Sebastian watches how Jim’s gaze rolls over Holmes, slow and careful, taking his time, taking everything _in_.

Holmes moves closer. “I’m sure you’re aware of my brother’s intentions.”

Jim hums in agreement, tilts his head back. From beneath his lashes he looks up at Holmes. “Yeah, yeah, boring,” Jim drawls.

“He thinks you want to destroy me,” Holmes says.

“And what do you think, Sherlock?”

“I’m not sure,” Holmes says. Something in his voice. Elation. Then Holmes reaches out. His fingertips glide over Jim’s tie pin. Holmes tenses.

“What,” Jim says, softly, “doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“You’re trying to derail me,” Holmes hisses, hand splaying against Jim’s chest. With a single step Holmes has Jim against the slab. Jim arches back slightly, head tilted back, mouth slack. Sebastian’s fingers curl into fists.

Holmes breathes in sharply through gritted teeth. Exhales slowly. The sound is intimate in the quiet of the room.

Sebastian can only see Holmes’ back, the mop of his black curls, the sharp line of his cheekbone, how his jaw clenches. He towers over Jim, hand moving up to Jim’s throat.

“Do we do that now,” Jim says, voice vacuous. “Touch.”

Holmes’ fingers tighten, thumb pressing over Jim’s Adam’s apple above his collar.

Something ugly twists inside Sebastian.

“It’s where we left off,” Holmes whispers.

Sebastian remembers watching them shake hands through his scope, that day, on the roof of this same building they’re in now. Before Jim had pulled the gun. He hadn’t told Sebastian, none of it.

Holmes leans in, his curls brushing Jim’s cheek. Sebastian doesn’t catch what Holmes is murmuring. He only catches the smile that curves Jim’s lips. Sebastian feels his nails pierce the skin of his palms.

Jim shifts and Holmes steps back. They look at each other whilst Jim saunters past Holmes. Holmes follows the motion, turning.

It takes Sebastian a moment to realise Jim’s coming towards him. Then Jim opens the door further, gaze sliding over Sebastian, unsurprised, and without stopping, Jim continues down the hallway.

Paralysis. Then, Sebastian follows him.

 

Outside, it’s still warm, but rain starts dripping onto the pavement. Wind sweeps through the streets. The growling of thunder in the distance.

Jim gets into Sebastian’s car. The rain intensifies.  

Sebastian starts the engine.

 

He takes Jim to his flat in Knightsbridge.

Jim allows Sebastian to come up.

Rain whips against the floor-length windows. Lightning rives the sky, unearthly blue. Thunder cracks like a bomb ripping through air and flesh. For a moment, Sebastian is back in Iraq. Blood rushes through his veins, and he stands still, trying to calm his breath. Trying to smother what violence blazes beneath his skin. Sebastian thinks of Holmes. How easy it’d be to do to him what Sebastian had done in the camps, to the prisoners. For _days_.

“Daydreaming?”

Sebastian blinks. He closes the door behind him. Jim beckons him over.

“Loosen my tie,” Jim says.

Sebastian does. He slides it from Jim’s neck with more force than necessary. Without being asked, he grabs the lapels of Jim’s suit jacket and pushes it past Jim’s shoulders. They’re close. He breathes in Jim’s perfume. There’s a soupçon of something else. Of Holmes.

Sebastian marches Jim against the wall. Jim lets him.

Thunder cracks.

Sebastian wants to kiss him, wants to mar him. Instead, Sebastian asks, “What is it you have planned for him?”

Jim looks at him, face blank, eyes lightless, avaricious.

“Why would I tell you, Sebastian?”

Sebastian steps back as if struck.

Jim opens the window next to him. A gust of wind rushes in, tears at the white curtains. Rain, and the scent of ozone. The thunder is louder. Darkness. Then the skies drown in light. Thunder right away. The storm must be above them.

Jim stands still between the flapping curtains. Sebastian beholds him like he had beheld death in the desert. And maybe that’s why Sebastian can never leave.

  


xiii.

 

The skies are tumultuous. Rain continues to batter the streets.

Jim has changed into an old shirt and jogging pants. He’s barefoot, lounging on the couch, laptop propped on his knees. On the screen, a secure video conference line. His mic and cam are disabled. The screen shows a plain room, a house in a village somewhere in North Waziristan. The sun has set, and darkness shrouds the small window in the back. Five figures, two of them half cut off, sit in front of the camera. One is clean shaven, the others with carefully groomed beards down to their chests. The one in their midst has shadowed eyes underneath thick brows, nose sharp, still handsome though time has carved into his features. Sirajuddin Haqqani.

 _Mr M. It is an honour._ Sirajuddin types in Dari.

 _Lets get down to business, shall we._ Jim types back.

It takes Jim three hours in total. He finalises the plans, adds details for the travel routes, double-checks the timeline and contact data for their people at the border to Afghanistan, reassures his ties to the mercenaries and followers they’ve planted within the US embassy in Kabul a year ago, and explains once more how to hide the explosives from detection. Then he continues to the second and more difficult phase of the plan, all the people in place in D.C. and how to avoid the ever careful eyes of Pompeo and Comey.

If all goes well, and it will, they’ll have a rather spectacular result in about forty days. Possibly war. Especially with the current administration. And what fun that’d be. Absolute chaos.

Jim hums contently, concludes the call with a follow up of orders, and then shuts his laptop.

“Operation Glowworm is go,” Jim mumbles as Sebastian places a glass of water on the couch table. “I’ll expect you to handle all that comes our way,” Jim adds.

Sebastian nods. “Certainly.”

Sebastian’s changed into one of the suits Jim had had tailored for him, anthracite threepiece, and on top, a light white jacket. He looks sharp, and exactly as handsome as someone who got expelled from Eton.

Sebastian’s about to head out and meet a new client for Jim. A rather notorious CEO of an international pharmaceutical company with some interesting financiers, politicians and business magnates, among them. Certainly useful to add to one’s contact list. Especially since so much of Jim’s ties have been severed by Sherlock.

“Come back here when you’re done,” Jim says.

Sebastian halts, hand already on the door handle. A smile splits his lips, sharklike.

“Why, one might think you actually like me.”

“Stop fishing for compliments,” Jim says. Sebastian leans against the door, crossing his arms.

Jim sighs, frowning, but the corner of his mouth curves upward on its own. “You’re a pain.”

Sebastian’s smile widens, revealing teeth. “Give me more credit,” Sebastian demands.

Jim bites his tongue, can feel himself getting hard. Sebastian’s gaze flickers down to Jim’s thighs, then up.

“Needy.”

Heat rises in Jim’s chest. “I think what I _need_ is to spank you.”  

Sebastian chuckles. “Are you certain? Wouldn’t you rather have me do the spanking?”

Jim’s cock twitches. Sebastian sees.

“Get out or you _will_ be late for your meeting. And you know I don’t tolerate tardiness.”

Sebastian smirks. His gaze flickers to Jim’s hard-on. “Think about me,” he says.

“ _Out._ ”

Sebastian throws him one last glance, then the door falls shut behind him.

 

Jim has a hand down his pants, head tilted back on the armrest of the couch, when his phone rings.

He’s about to shut it off, when he sees the caller ID.

Sherlock.

Without thought, Jim picks up.

“I’m a _tad_ busy right now,” he drawls into the phone, other hand still curled around his cock.

“Are you aiding an upcoming terrorist attack?” Sherlock asks.

“What makes you think that, darling?” Jim says, hand gliding down and up. A soft noise escapes his mouth.

“A little bird told me something’s in the wi—” Sherlock stops, then, slowly, “What are you doing?”

“Getting off.”

“Right now.”

“Well I’m not _quite_ there yet.”

Sherlock says nothing, but his breathing quickens on the other end of the line.

“Keep talking,” Jim says, moan on the tip of his tongue.

“I—I’m— I have word from a reliable source that—”

“Finish your sentence.”

“—that traffic has been unusually reliable in the province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.”

“Go on.” Jim sucks his lower lip between his teeth while he grips himself harder.

“Which lead me to further inquiries. Travel is never stable in those Pakistani provinces, so something of _magnitude_ must be under way.”

“And who told you.”

“Acquaintance of my brother.”

“Did you throw them out of the window?”

“Twice.”

Jim snickers, laugh turning to a moan. He exhales harshly, fingers grazing his cockhead, smearing the precome that has gathered at the tip.

“You’re—”

“Not yet,” Jim says, breathless.

“Where are you?” Sherlock’s voice drops. More precome oozes from Jim’s cock.

“You know I won’t tell you.”

“Worth a try.” Then, “so is it you?”

“Telling you would be playing fair.”

Sherlock huffs a quiet laugh. “So you are playing.”

“Isn’t that what you want.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer that. Jim can hear his breathing rasp through the speakers of the phone. Jittery.

“Jim...”

“Sherlock.”

“If this is you, I will stop it.” Jim can hear Sherlock’s lips graze the phone.

“Now you’re talking dirty,” Jim says. He’s almost there, can feel it build, spread through his veins, curl in his abdomen.

“I won’t permit it,” vowels sharp.

“Idle chit-chat,” Jim gasps.

Sherlock laughs, low in his throat. The sound rumbles through Jim.

“Not idle, no. I promise.” And it’s the ravenous anticipation in Sherlock’s voice that pushes Jim over the edge.

He comes hard, spilling over his fingers, moan being drawn from his lips.

It takes a moment to come back to himself.

Sherlock’s still on the line.

“Good evening,” Sherlock says, like a thief, and hangs up.

 

Jim cleans up.

He logs into the feed of 221b, rewinding. He stops when a chair rises from its crashpoint back up into Sherlock’s window. Jim rewinds it further until he gets to Sherlock entering his flat, gun in hand, man in front of him, head down, hair hiding his face. Sherlock does not turn on the lights. Clever boy. Sherlock strips a pillow of its case with one hand and then drapes it over the man’s face.

“Now,” Sherlock says, gun at the back of the man’s head “I will ask you some questions. You’ll tap your thigh once for yes, twice for no. Understood?”

The man taps twice. Sherlock laughs.

A moment later Sherlock crashes the man through the window.

The questions Sherlock asks are superficial, nothing yet to worry for, except for Sherlock having caught Jim’s scent.

After Sherlock has dragged the man up once again from the second crash, Sherlock takes out his phone. Six minutes later an ambulance arrives.

 _First mistake_ , Jim thinks. He texts Sebastian. _Someone talked. Check the hospitals for any of our birds._ He attaches a dim screenshot from the surveillance tapes.

 _Yes, boss,_ comes the immediate reply.

_You know what to do when you find him._

_Yes._

Anger flares up in Jim, white hot. He darts around, stalks into the kitchen, dragging his fingers over his face. He takes out his phone, pulls up the chat with Sebastian and types,

_Forget what I said. When you find him, get him out and make an example of him._

_Any preferences?_ Sebastian texts back.

Jim considers it a moment. Then, _Blood eagle._

 _Aye, aye._ Sebastian replies.

Jim does a quick calculation, who of his people might’ve been caught by the Ice Man who fit the description of the man on the tape, estimates the probability of who’d break easily, and then makes a list. He sends it to Sebastian, while he’s already considering a change in schedule to throw Sherlock, and possibly Mycroft, off should they get too close. Within an hour, he’s sketched it out. For now, he files it away. No need to disrupt what is running smoothly without having more information.

When Jim’s anger subsides, he can’t quite deny that he is also...a tiny bit pleased.

He’s thought about loosening a thread of Glowworm for Sherlock to pull. Now Sherlock’s found one all by himself _and_ has connected it to Jim. Rather impressive.

 

A few hours later, Sebastian gives him an update on the new client, all well, and on the culprit, he hasn’t found him yet. Jim tells him to get some of his people involved and keep looking.

 

Night falls.

Jim has turned off the lights. Only the orange glow of streetlamps outside. He stands before the open window. The scent of rain still tints the air. The pavement is wet.

A breeze wafts against Jim, prickling his skin. Gooseflesh.

The streets are quiet.

Jim curls his fingers around the balustrade of the French balcony.

He feels like Sherlock has stolen something from him. A petit mort.

Jim wants to steal something from Sherlock in return.

**Author's Note:**

> ...After 5 years I fall straight back into my obsession with Jim, and it hurts just as good as the first time.  
>  Please let me know what you think!  
> Also check out my Jim [paintings](http://summeringminor.tumblr.com/tagged/jim-moriarty)!


End file.
